


a hand to my chin and drawn away

by gayforroxane



Category: The Get Down (TV)
Genre: Homophobic Slurs, M/M, Snippets, aids/hiv, general angsty good times, severely in-love boys, some alternate universes, soulmate-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 10:50:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10695492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayforroxane/pseuds/gayforroxane
Summary: One : as it goesSouth Bronx, New York City, New York, 1977Two : first wordsSouth Bronx, New York City, New York, 1977Three : last wordsLower Manhattan Hospital, Manhattan, New York City, New York 1981(AU and non-AU snippets of the boys)





	1. South Bronx, 1977

> Here, take my hand. 
> 
> Thank you. 
> 
>  

One : as it goes

_ South Bronx, New York City, New York, 1977 _

 

He’s running from the cops and he wants to refuse to ever stop, because why would he, how could he? He won’t. 

The tunnel is wide and tall and dark and it wants to creep beneath his skin and whirl in his imagination, bringing clawing fingers to life, catching on his jeans, on his rings, on his skin. 

“Here, take my hand!”

Fingers close around his own and for a split second he feels claws, but the hand is warm and dry and jeweled. The momentum of the breath through his lungs crashes him into a brick wall, propelled by someone new. He looks. Broad-shouldered, long-haired, pretty as all hell, he stares. Light eyes he can’t make out, a strong jaw. A tee-shirt clings to his waist and chest, jeans cling to his hips and thighs, and Dizzee looks everywhere as the boy turns to check if the cops are gone, flicking over his body, caught on his eyes. 

“Thank you.” 


	2. South Bronx, 1977

> Here, take my hand.
> 
> Thank you. 

 

Two : first words

_ South Bronx, New York City, New York, 1977 _

 

They are, possibly, the worst words to have. 

He can’t even begin to conceive the amount of people who have ‘thank you’ to him. ‘Thanks’ may ring through his ears and throat more often, but hundreds of people have walked through a door he’s held and distractedly murmured ‘thank you’ as they walked by. How many drinks has he handed to others that ended with those words? How many blowjobs, handjobs, and fucks?

With music pounding through his ears and purple, pink, lilac lights flashing across his ears, he watches somebody stumble and be stumbled upon. He hopes that whatever the crowd is having isn’t Angel Dust, because he doesn’t need that shit tonight. Tonight, he needs boys who wish they could be girls and people loving and being free. 

He doesn’t need more cops. 

But he looks into the crowd and the kid doesn’t get up.  

In the heat, under the sweat and lights, people are pliant, and he pushes through them with ease, pressing his shoulders into glitter and beads and eyeshadow to ask them to move. They lean away. No one stoops to help him as he kneels next to the kid, tucking his fingers into his pulse. Hazy eyes blink at him. Lean, wiry, with a head of huge, dark hair and big brown eyes, lips shrouded in smearing hot pink lipstick, the boy catches his gaze for a few moments, and he’s sure his mouth has fallen open in an unflattering way. His jeans cling to his hips and thighs, his tank top to his stomach, his jacket - adorned with buttons and beads and spray paint - to his shoulders and arms. 

“Here,” He says, smiling at him, trying not to stare. “Take my hand.” 

He does, gently, curling long fingers into his. In their ears, the song croons words about being set free. As he stands, the boy deftly catches his wrist, skimming his thumb along the words that hide there, holding his eyes as he says, with a shy smile and wide eyes winged with silver eyeliner, “Thank you.” 

The lipstick is smeared until it disappears, creeping beneath their skin. 


	3. Lower Manhattan, 1981

> Here, take my hand. 
> 
> Thank you. 

 

Three : last words

_ Lower Manhattan Hospital, Manhattan, New York City, New York 1981 _

 

“Another one?” 

“It’s an  _ epidemic _ , man, that’s the fucking definition.”

“The fuck is with this city, huh? Few years ago we get the fucking Angel Dust rolling through the fucking Bronx killing a couple hundred kids, now we got fucking HIV running through the fags--!”

“Shut the fuck up, Matt, or I’m gonna kill you.”

A doctor snorts, pulling on the sleeve of his coat, running fingers through greasy hair. “Nah, Der, I’ll get to him first.”

“No doubt, Thor.” 

“Don’t call me that.”

“C’mon, you were a good fucking bomber, man.”

“Before medschool, asshole.” 

“Look, if you’re gonna get all uptight about the fags running around and fucking each other silly until they--” Matt continues, swigging a coffee cup up to his mouth. 

“How about you shove it up your ass and close your fucking mouth while you’re talking to a  _ fag _ who’s been watching his friends drop like motherfucking flies, huh?” The room chills and stills and he huffs the breath out of his nose, glancing towards a nurse on his left, dressed in pink scrubs, dark marks beneath his eyes. “Who have I got, Derek?”

“Holy shit, man."

"Derek."

"Right, uh - you've got Marcus Kipling, twenty-two.” 

“God, he’s young.” He runs a palm down his face, and the faces of black and latino kids rush over his eyes, all sick, all sore, all done, all ready to die because it's been too fucking long. 

“Want me to take this one?”

“No." He glances over the chart, but the results are the same as every hour and he pushes it away roughly. "Go grab a coffee or something.”

“Un-fucking-likely. I’ll be here when you’re out.” 

“Thanks, man.” He inhales and tugs an elastic band off his wrist with his teeth, trapping his hair into a bun at the back of his head. 

This is the worst part, condemning children and fathers and brothers and friends to death, offering nothing but empty, doctor words that he hates, that he wishes he didn’t have to spill. 

He raps his knuckles against the door, and opens to a room full of hunched black men and women, all dressed in bright colours, gathered around the tiny bed in the center of the room. Usually, the private rooms go to white families, and he thanks whoever he can that this boy is getting comfort. For a few moments, at least. A woman with huge eyes and a polite smile stands and glances at him. “Excuse me, Ms. Kipling, I’m Doctor Chris Jacobs--”

“You looking after my little brother?” The words ring with confrontation but her tone is too tired to mean anything. 

“Yes ma’am, I am.”

“Uh, can you - I don’t-- God, he’s too young for this, I’m uh sorry, Doctor.” She looks on the verge of tears, and a woman with blue eyeshadow and pink lips wraps an arm around her, pressing a kiss to her temple. He’s suddenly leveled with a look that could unmake the pyramids, daring him to say a word. The whole family looks toward him. He swallows. 

He can’t say it, not to the fifteen people who have gathered with music and bright colours and paint in a room meant for five. Not when a boy of twenty-two who hasn’t gone anywhere yet is minutes from dying. 

“There isn’t anything I can say.”

“No,” Someone says. “There’s nothing you can fucking say about our fucking brother, you--”

“Shao.” A tall, slender arm coils around red leather-clad shoulders. 

“Your brother is dying. If you wanna yell and scream - which you have every right to do - do it to me instead of him, or your family.” 

“That's not your job, son,” says an older man with a scraggly beard and a shiny red shirt. 

“Today, Mr. Kipling, it's my only job. For you and your family, and for Marcus--” 

“Dizzee. Not Marcus, nobody calls him that, ‘cept our dad, when he’s fucking spitting mad.” A short boy with a sad lilt to his mouth wraps a hand around his arm and pulls him to the bed. “He wants to talk to you, man.”

His gaze falls across the bed and he gasps, because he’s  _ young _ . Even coated in sweat and grey beneath dark skin, the boy is smooth-cheeked, all sharp angles and soft lines. His hair curls on the white pillow like a halo. His fingers twitch against the bed. 

“Dr. Jacobs--” The slender boy says. 

“Thor,” He interrupts. “It’s - uh, it’s Thor.”

“Thor, I wanted to thank you. For not sayin’ shit about Dizz being gay, or any bullshit about him being okay. We’ve heard more than enough of that fucking shit today.” 

Ignoring the fire that slides through him, he murmurs with a smile, "It'd be pretty fucking hypocritical of me, man."

The sheets rustle. The boy blinks and as one, the family turns, smiles craving into their faces. Thor smiles, too, because these smiles are genuine and tear-soaked, but they’re not forced or hiding, they're prioritizing the love over the fear and he loves them for it, irrationally and completely and without end. 

“Hey D.”

“Hiya Dizz.”

“Pretty Dizzee D, my man.”

“How you feelin’, baby?”

Thor flinches when the boy trembles, blinking, his head moving and back forth against the bed mindlessly, lips falling open and shut. The family does, too, all in tandem. 

His fingers twitch against the bed, and Thor watches fingernails bite, drawing blood against the soft skin of his palms. “Here,” He says softly, ignoring the pounding of his heart in his throat. “Take my hand.”

Blood-speckled, dry, aching, holding hands with this boy makes him hurt. He watches bruises bloom in his gentle grip and feels his gut twist and his heart shout. Hands fall on his shoulders. Everyone leans closer to the bed, still smiling a little bit, in love with even the image of their brother’s moving chest. 

Through the grim and sallow look of sickness, he can see how beautiful he was. 

He watches the boy’s throat work.  

“Thank you,” He says, like he can read Thor’s mind. The words rasp, and he winces like it hurts. His skin is bruised and soaked with sweat, and from here, he can tell that the inside of his mouth is coated with sores, that beneath the sheets, his thighs and genitals are, too. 

Gently, he smiles. Thor and Yolanda and the rest brush careful hands across his face and hair and legs and shoulders. 

And then. 

And then, they all go still and silent and their eyes are wet and their lungs are burning, because--

the flatline begs. 

**Author's Note:**

> well, lovelies, i hoped you liked it  
> if you want more or something or wanna yell or complain or rant or gossip or something my tumblr is  
> @ blue-by-auster
> 
> have a wonderful day and im sorry about the angst (am i really?)


End file.
